The Nine Deaths of John Watson
by himitsutsubasa
Summary: And The Nine Lives of Sherlock Holmes. John survives through four centuries. His first death was in the American War for Independence. This is his journey since then. Featuring a cameo by Major Jamie Stewart from War Horse and other prominent historical figures.
1. The Nine Deaths of John Watson

John Watson was lucky. He had nine lives. So to speak.

* * *

><p>The first time he fell in love it was when he was fifteen. The year was 1773. He loved a girl by the name of Janine. She was the prettiest girl in the village. He courted her like any other, but he was just a farm boy. Nothing impressive.<p>

Finally, the war against America broke out. It would, he recalled, be named the American Revolutionary War. He asked Janine for her hand. She said "yes", but only if he returned. That drove the spirit in John. He fought like any "red coat". The war was long and hard but he fought his way through.

John noticed something was wrong the first time a bullet sliced into his chest. It fell out and there was no wound. He didn't say a word to anyone.

He was eventually taken by the Americans. The general was kind and sent him home after the war ended with a souvenir. He was proud to note that the general eventually became president.

* * *

><p>John returned, but found Janine hadn't waited. She was married to a Mr. Reginald Downey. John was irate but nothing could heal his heart. The scar from the battle faded.<p>

The second time he died, he died drowning his sorrows in ale.

* * *

><p>Finally, his heart healed. There was not a mark on his face and he looked just as young as ever.<p>

* * *

><p>War had no honor, he thought. But he fought on. It was a battle against the rebels in Ireland. A bullet tore through his leg and he bled out every drop onto the battle field as canons boomed overhead. To tell the truth, John didn't think he go on.<p>

He didn't have to. The war ended when the rebels were defeated. Going home to his cottage, he wondered if he should have joined the rebels. He wasn't Irish. He wasn't even Scottish. But it would give him a cause.

Something to fight for.

* * *

><p>The next time he was in war. He was a doctor. It was the year 1812. He fought against the Americans yet again. It was disappointing to say he drowned after falling off a boat. He knew he was dead.<p>

Then, he wasn't. The soldiers hauled him back aboard and John noticed that this was the fourth time he died in the 32 years since his first death.

He resolved to be more careful.

* * *

><p>The next death was an accident during the Opium wars. He was caught in friendly fire.<p>

It wasn't the bullets that got him though. It was the wall they had so kindly forgotten to mention it was crumbling.

* * *

><p>After he dug himself out, he managed to rejoin his regiment. The commanding officer intercepted a letter from the Oriental officials.<p>

Years later, John found the letters as he was working as a cart driver. He asked the boy for it.

In the end, he bought it for a penny. He kept it in a small wooden box.

* * *

><p>The next time he died, he was rescued. He was lucky to have fought alongside a Major Jamie Stewart.<p>

Stewart pushed him off his horse.

John realized that, when the man did that little prance of circles on his horse, it was to save him.

Nonetheless, John died of respiratory failure when his lungs filled with blood.

When he awoke, John tried to return the favor, but it was too late.

Jamie was dead.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, in the firelight, Sherlock looked just like the brave friend that saved him. John only brushed aside the idea.<p>

There was only one Sherlock.

* * *

><p>Months later, he heard of the Miracle Horse. He recognized it. The markings were of the horse Nicholls rode into battle.<p>

He cut out the section of the post and kept it along with the letter to Queen Victoria and the first star of the American flag.

* * *

><p>The sixth death was in World War II. John was accidentally killed in a bombing.<p>

It was the most surprising of his deaths.

* * *

><p>The next death was a funny one. It was after he married for the fourth time. But, like the others, they had no children.<p>

He wife grew old. She grew tired. She grew angry. She left. Her words to him were that she hoped a piano would fall on him.

It did.

That was actually one of the more original death threats he had heard.

* * *

><p>He met a girl by the name of Harriet. She was French actually. Her first death was by the hands of the feudal manor's lady. She was beaten to death for not starching the sheets properly. Since then, Harriet had changed. Like John, she used many names. One that she liked most was Amelia Earhart.<p>

After her lifelong partner in time left for Afghanistan with John, she took to drinking. Her current wife, a woman named Clara, was taxed to no end.

John felt horrid.

* * *

><p>The next death wasn't his. It was the death of Harriet's friend. The man survived the Vietnam War before immigrating to the UK. He didn't age a day since the first death. That was to the bubonic plague in 1465. John promised to bring him back.<p>

He learned there was only one thing that could really kill people like them.

It was a single shot to the head.

* * *

><p>The next time he died. He felt it. A bullet tore into his shoulder and he was very near death. Blood poured from the wound, obscuring the flag on his chest. Soldiers hovered over him and he wondered if he could tell the difference between them and angels.<p>

He wondered if his eighth life was really his last.

At least his heart stopped. John saw all the medics rushing to help him as a soldier hauled in his body. For a second, they all shook their heads. The soldier, a Bill Murray, looked distraught. John saved his life only days before.

But, the monitor beeped. He was alive. John felt his life surging back into his limbs.

He had another chance.

* * *

><p>John watched the news on the telly. Three years had passed since Sherlock jumped. He heart hadn't beaten since. It felt as if he had died that day. A fitting end to his ninth life; to leave a shell of a man who survived across four centuries behind.<p>

The box with the Medals of Honor and the other little souvenirs of his many years were still locked away safely. But recently, another one joined them. It was a ripped sheet of music. One that Sherlock started to compose. For him. And him alone.

John was ready to pull the gun on himself. All the promises from Molly and Mycroft had yielded nothing. Things wouldn't get better.

But, the door bell rang and he opened it. It was Sherlock. In all his glory.

John's heart finally picked up a beat.

It was his tenth life. It would be his last.

It would be enough.

* * *

><p>I finally got around to watching <em>War Horse<em> and I adored it. The movie was dynamic and heartwarming. I almost shrieked when I saw Benedict as Maj. Jamie Stewart. So, he makes a cameo in this fiction.

Why he rescued John, I may never know. But, we can all guess.

I will be working on Script Frenzy. Please join us and write a great 100 page script in 30 days.

Per usual the wall is up and I thank all the people who read my works. I am so happy to have had over 2,000 total story views this past month. You all spoil me.

Thank you.


	2. The Nine Lives of Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock stared at the street below. People started staring at the man on the roof top.

But, there was only one person that he was looking for.

"Good bye, John"

He jumped.

* * *

><p>It was a long time ago, Sherlock couldn't remember when, and it just happened. Sherlock Holmes was born. His memory of that time has all but been obliterated. Though he may say otherwise, a small part of him recalls those days.<p>

It is in his mind palace. It is where he keeps all his memories of his first life.

The room is dark and light, a contrast that he cannot recall. It was important. Back then it was important. Now it is nothing but dust.

The very same piles high on the stone shelves made of time. On them lay stones that glitter in the light, gems of information, and glow in the dark, the remains of old art. Bones, cases he corrects, are scattered amongst them in no order. Well, so to say there was an order once, but he has forgotten it. Scrawled on a wall in childish hand writing is a name, a name that Sherlock cannot remember.

Gwallt Golau.

It is a glittering gold. And that is as much as he will see. He never looks in the corners, covered in cobwebs, or at the walls made of tree columns still covered in bark. A few plants stick out of a jar on the desk. The leaves are made of fine parchment and the veins are words written in blood. The jar is hewn form stone. It is old.

That much Sherlock remembers.

* * *

><p>There is a cry and the father rushes in to see his child. The eyes that look up at him are already open.<p>

Green and Grey. The color of plant and stone.

The elders look at the boy and sigh. The man holds his breath. The mother, not his wife for those they don't have, screams as the child is taken from her. She reaches out crying for her son. The child is calm, strangely so. He looks about watching everyone and everything, swaddled in his woven cloth.

The great elder takes out a knife and holds it to the child's throat.

He pulls.

Blood spills over the fine woven robes. The child's eyes dull, only for a second.

The blood stops and he blinks at them, oblivious to the crimson staining the earth.

The elder nods sagely. The rest stare at the child.

A word escapes the little boy's lips.

"Aur"

* * *

><p>They are druids. (At least, that was what Mycroft says nowadays. Sherlock doesn't care.) Everyone notices he is strange after the first few winters. He doesn't putter about with balls, like boys, or watch women cook, like girls. He vanishes, sending everyone into an uproar. He returns a few hours later carrying a basket of herbs. The villagers would be lying if they weren't afraid and thankful for the boy.<p>

Cold season will set in soon. He just gathered every disease fighting herb they know of. Not a single leaf was harmed.

Sherlock remembers the screaming and the fear. He swore not to help anyone after that day.

* * *

><p>He keeps his promise. He does what he likes. He was, at eighteen winters, given a place at the counsel. They believe his deductions are great magic from the mother earth. He doesn't attempt to disagree knowing they won't care. He knows they will try to marry him to the priestess. Ever since his first word, people have tried to win him over with gold or golden haired maidens. It is a nuisance.<p>

He decides to go off on his own. Packing up his things, he notices the signs that there will be change. He could stay and be roped down or vanish like he did as a child. He opts for the latter.

As he leaves, his mother gives him a hug. The first since he became too old for them.

"Gwallt Golau." She kisses him goodbye.

A bit of him dies. Or, he finally discovers, it is already dead.

* * *

><p>Sherlock pulls out the violin. It is old. An heirloom, John reasons. But it has been played by no other since Beethoven presented it to Mycroft. He twists a wry smile at that.<p>

He alights on a familiar tune. It is one of the memories buried deeply into hard drive.

A soft melody drifts from the instrument. John almost nods off in his chair. Sherlock ends the song and carries the small man off to bed.

The tune, a lullaby, still plays somewhere deeper inside.

* * *

><p>The next room is no different. Old but there are a few new moments to it. There is the painting he composed when it was interesting to do so. A tall, regal castle stands. It is paint of experience and a canvas of expectation.<p>

On a stand is a set of armor made from resolve. It was worn by one of the greatest kings of the age. The sword hangs loosely from the hip, a blade of justice protected by integrity.

He can't help but smile at the dress that hangs from the chair.

It is made of love letters of the most explicit kind. He looks fondly at the name at the collar. His first real case.

* * *

><p>John directs him to daytime telly. Soon he tires of it. But he doesn't stop watching.<p>

Solving a case for Comic-con, or other nonsense, leads him to another series. He laughs at the name. But the actor reminds him a little of the original. A dark haired, fair skinned, lanky boy learning the in's and out's of a kingdom. Though, the ears are just ridiculous.

* * *

><p>The young Sherlock wanders far. Eventually, he reaches a great kingdom. A place whose name he can't quite remember. This is the place he calls home for the next decade.<p>

He first day is interesting to say the least. He defeats a knight in the middle of the street. That happens to be the king. But, the counselor saves him. The man's name is Mycroft.

Sherlock and Mycroft work well together. They like one-upping each other once Sherlock teaches Mycroft the deduction game. The court learns to fear the counselor and his "brother". Sherlock takes on a new name, Emrys, better known as Merlin.

* * *

><p>Sherlock watches how the tale is spun out of proportion. He is no longer the counselor's brother and king's magician. He is old and the guiding light for the boy prince, which is preposterous because Arthur was already in his thirties when they met. Rubbing his smooth chin, Sherlock remembers the first disguise.<p>

* * *

><p>He pasted on a fine long beard. That and the robes would help him sneak about the castle. Everyone ignored the old man who rambled about. People guessed he was a wizard and didn't care to find out.<p>

He did expose Guinevere's infidelity but it was only the first. It began his long line of work.

* * *

><p>Arthur died. Really, it was anti-climactic in every way. Mycroft was behind the whole thing as usual. He hired a young man named Mordred. From the beginning, the fellow had an obsession with Sherlock. He followed him everywhere.<p>

Sherlock did get tired of his audience trying and failing to upstage him. He gave the boy an alkaloid just for fun.

The boy survived. Sherlock knew exactly what the man was. Mycroft, who long believed that he and Sherlock were the only ones with that ability, tested the theory.

Mordred survived. As did his love for Sherlock.

* * *

><p>He met a remotely interesting girl once. Her name was Minerva, after the goddess of Rome.<p>

Mycroft made her a king's ward. And she made yet another kingdom fall at Mycroft's feet. She rarely left his side after wards.

King Charlemagne was by no means great. All of his power was an extension of Mycroft's. Mycroft was the all mighty power behind the crown. Sherlock never bothered to create a room for that period.

There were no crimes to solve.

* * *

><p>The next room was a chess board. The walls were made of the Magna Carta, the one he and Mycroft worked together to draft.<p>

Each chess piece was made of parchment rolled and laid over, notes about every king and his government at the time.

These were the days that they divided up the governments and played political chess. He found this to be very interesting at the time.

Now, he can't be bothered with the name of the prime minister.

* * *

><p>For a short time, he was a pirate.<p>

Mycroft called it teenage rebellion. Sherlock didn't care. He sailed the seas on his ship with his crew.

He loved the rush so much; he dedicated a room to his sea-faring adventures.

He became known as the infamous Blackbeard.

Though, it was funny how he had no beard.

* * *

><p>The Golden age of Europe created a lovely view. The brick walls were plastered with drafts of thoughts and conversations as plays. The unedited version of Romeo and Juliet was buried somewhere in the mountain ranges of paper.<p>

This was also the golden age of crime.

Sherlock had a new case every week as Mycroft made him deal with the criminal nuisances.

Vienna of 1683 and Egypt in 1715 were a two of the cases that made up the many strings crisscrossing the ceiling. He was very happy to see the down fall of monarchy, even constitutional, in the threads. In the 20th century, he penned a paper on it called the Lynch-Pin theory.

To his greatest amusement, he saw three lovely letters formed by the yellow threads. They didn't make sense until much later.

* * *

><p>The American War for Independence was a nuisance.<p>

Creative crimes hit an all-time low. He started wondering if anyone was even interesting.

But in London, he found something. Rather, it was someone.

He was short and blonde. The man was just something else. Entirely and for the first time, Sherlock was interested in a human being. Mycroft had lost his interest a long time ago. The golden head of hair was what attracted him in the first place. It was the easy going smile and the sweet disposition the made him stay. Not to say the boy couldn't be a fire cracker. He was just very interesting.

Sherlock saw him getting onto the boat set for the war America.

He deleted the memory the moment the boat disappeared over the horizon.

* * *

><p>Sherlock spent the next hundred or so years traveling. No rooms were made. Mostly he stuck to himself and did what he liked. It was no different than before. Now, he had a new motto.<p>

There is nothing new under the sun.

* * *

><p>The next room was red. Very red. And over the years it grew a wealth of information. All scratched into the walls with mascara wands and lipstick.<p>

Irene Adler. She wasn't the typical victim.

She looked between him and Inspector Rupert Graves. She told her story.

* * *

><p>Sherlock cornered the man in a dark alley. Bartholomew Johansson aka Jack the Ripper. It was easy really. Far too easy. He is ready to arrest the man when Johansson turns a pistol on himself.<p>

Jack the Ripper never kills again.

* * *

><p>Inevitably it leads back to Mortiarty, as the bloke calls himself nowadays. Mycroft is a little miffed that the servant boy has risen to such criminal lengths to assure Sherlock's interest.<p>

Sherlock deletes the information. It is no longer useful.

* * *

><p>The next room was dark and damp. There was a camouflage pattern on the walls. It was made of lost wishes that solders whispered over campfires. The table in the center was the hard oak of age and planning. The map was of the battles one fought against himself and the pins each battle lost or won.<p>

But it was the little toy horse in the center of the room. It was a black horse with white mitts and diamond on his forehead.

There is a clip from a newspaper on the saddle.

* * *

><p>Sherlock did meet the boy again. He was an infantry man.<p>

He was one of Sherlock's kind.

Sherlock had changed his name to Jamie. The rest was history.

He was caught.

He was executed.

At least that was what John thought.

Bleeding into the earth, he laughed at himself for letting the little fellow cry.

Months later, at a debriefing, he deletes the information.

* * *

><p>The next century or so passed in a flash.<p>

Mycroft chooses a quieter, but no less powerful, place in the government.

Anthea, as she calls herself, develops an addiction to cell phones. It is natural as they didn't exist in the century she was born.

He meets the new D.I. Lesterade, who understands more than his great-grandfather.

He solves crimes for the yard again.

He goes to Bart's to beat up dead bodies.

He meets John Watson.

The man is familiar in a strange way. He doesn't know exactly how to place it.

They get along.

They become friends.

* * *

><p>There is the sneaking suspicion. Something is off.<p>

John makes him sentimental.

John makes him kind.

John makes him love.

John makes him something he isn't.

Or something he was.

* * *

><p>Ghost files, things he hadn't really deleted, come back at the worst moment. He remembers falling three times, for the same man, who remained oblivious to it all.<p>

He will fall once more to end it.

* * *

><p>He isn't dead. A skull crushing blow doesn't kill him. Another failed experiment.<p>

* * *

><p>He does go back eventually.<p>

John cries. John punches. John asks.

Sherlock hugs. Sherlock pets. Sherlock answers.

Sherlock wonders why he left in the first place.

* * *

><p>Sherlock locks up all the other lives. They total nine. He isn't interested.<p>

But all the files about John are moved. John gets a room the size of their flat.

The horse. The flag. The ship. The pink mobile.

Everything is there.

* * *

><p>He will tell the poor fellow eventually.<p>

He looks at the sleeping face.

Eventually.

* * *

><p>I was going to tell those that care about the little thing about tenses. In Sherlock's mind, the rooms are not built in a straight line and he flies through them in a semi-chronological order. that leads to a few issues about tense, which rapidly whorls in his mind.<p>

I have tried to capture that feeling.

Sorry, if it is confusing. I hope I can tackle a few other characters next.


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